


a knife that loves to feel

by angelcult



Category: SK8 the Infinity (Anime)
Genre: Chinen Miya Has Abandonment Issues, Gen, Graphic Description, Self-Destruction, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Worth Issues, Title from a Pierce The Veil song, i wrote this half asleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:15:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29214759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelcult/pseuds/angelcult
Summary: It’s self-flagellation and it’s deserved, it’s destruction and it’s holding him together. It’s nothing more than excuses and a terrible, terrible urge.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 36





	a knife that loves to feel

**Author's Note:**

> Read the tags! Everything is talked about in depth and in detail, so if that may be triggering for you, please don’t read, thank you!

It starts with an urge, it thrums beneath the skin like his heartbeat, it kicks it up to a ten, sends jitters through him though his hands are always steady. It’s like sinking into his head while being viscerally aware of himself, of everything around him.

He can hear the water rushing through the pipes from where he sits against the wall of his bathroom, he can feel the coolness of the tiles seeping into his skin. The gentle hum of the vents as heated air rushes through is the perfect white noise.

He stares down at his bare thighs and the criss-crossing of pink and faded scars, some newer than others. It was.. ugly, if he was honest with himself. Skin that would never repair itself beyond the point that it already had, that would maybe shrink as he grew older.

The maybes and what-ifs always scared him. 

_What if I bleed out?,_ he’d think, _what if my mom finds the body?_

It was more horrifying, the thought and the _guilt_ of his mother being the one to find him after he’d, more than likely, _accidentally_ killed himself. 

Though, they were always just that. Just little maybes and what-ifs because he was doing right by himself as much as he could. It was just a bit of stress relief, is what he told himself, because throwing himself off of his board and pretending to have fallen wasn’t as foolproof as this. Quick and easy to hide, the possibilities of the cuts popping and starting to bleed again were rare as long as he was careful. 

Twirling the little blade he’d broken out of a pencil sharpener between his fingers, he sighed, dropping his hand down and lightly traced the edge against a flat space of clear skin.

It was unblemished, unlike most of him. Sometimes, he got _so angry_ with himself that he didn’t even realise how far he’d gone, old and new overlapping, and he has to force himself to calm down first.

He really _will_ kill himself if he isn’t, and he imagines that bleeding out is painful.

Once his heartbeat has slowed some, he pressed the sharp edge against his skin, at an angle, scared to admit to himself that he knows the best way to break his own skin. If he did, it would be realer than it already was. He was just adding a little distance, a step back.

Pressing down, he drew it across his skin and it was an almost indescribable feeling. It hurt, but not an overwhelming amount. The blade bit, like many invisible teeth that spanned only a small space that wasn’t even a full two inches long. 

It bit and sunk in, and it burned— but only for a moment. If Miya’s honest with himself, it’s probably less than four seconds. If he pushes deeper, the skin will split open more and he can see _into_ himself.

If he remembers Health class correctly, he’s still looking at the epidermis, and the anatomical side of things makes it easier to keep some distance too.

One cut quickly becomes another, blood beading up slowly before it’s spilling over and sliding down the sides of his thigh. The blood, it’s the part Miya hates the most. Not because he’s squeamish, but because of the mess it leaves. 

He hates cleaning up, it makes room for shame to build inside of him, for the little thoughts of _“this isn’t normal”_ and _“you need to get some help, Miya”_ to start niggling at his mind.

Sometimes, he almost listens, _almost,_ because he knows it’s not a normal response to stress, he knows his life isn’t _hard_ by any means. It’s just him and his mom and that’s okay, he will recite dutifully, it has nothing to do with _me_ and everything to do with _him,_ he will say to himself _._

But he doesn’t really believe it, it’s a clever little ploy to make his brain shut up, until the next time the thoughts come creeping in and he considers stealing his mom’s wine or her sake or _something_ but then he remembers he has something a little better than alcohol that only hurts for a couple of seconds, if he’s lucky.

Miya is used to pain, he laughed when his friends left him, didn’t shed a single tear even though he wanted to. He could remember how his eyes had burned and blurred but then he had to stop it, because crying over them would have been _weak._ He didn’t cry when his father left because he didn’t deserve it, he didn’t cry over his loneliness or his own icy exterior.

It was like falling off of his board, once it happens so much, one almost grows numb to it. A bruise here and there was never anything to complain about, so what was the loss of friends and a father? 

It was just a bruise, it would heal.

“Fuck.” Miya swore, pressing down harder than he’d intended. Gritting his teeth to stop from flinching at the pain, he followed through with the cut. It was deeper than the others and bled immediately, a steady stream that made him groan quietly in frustration at the stain it would leave on his skin.

“Stupid,” He berated himself, swiping another cut harshly though it was disjointed and uneven, breaking off in several places, not even bleeding save for a faint red line.

His thigh was turning an irritated red, and he dropped the razor onto the floor, pressing his thumb down directly into the deep cut and hissing at the contact.

It was different from the razor, it burned and sent sparks of discomfort shooting up and down his spine, but he ignored it to dig his thumb in deeper and this time he whimpered. It wasn’t like the familiarity of a simple cut, it was continued and intentional and his eyes welled with tears.

He wanted to pull his hand away, to make it stop but-

“You don’t deserve it.” He whispered, brow furrowed with anger. “You deserve to hurt for what you-“ Yanks his hand away to scratch down over it with his nails instead and he curls in on himself. He can feel his tears against his face, hot and blurry.

Sniffling, he wipes the back of his bloody hand across his face and considers stopping, because his thigh is throbbing now, beating along to his heart but that feels too much like giving up.

He shakily picks the razor up, steadies his hand and starts again on his other. He’s more methodical this time, keeping his thoughts empty and bland so that his emotions had nothing to feed on, so that he didn’t do spiralling down again.

It was best that way, after all. A lack of room for error was better than how much he could hurt. Dropping the razor, he traced the tip of his finger lightly over the neat line of ten. Blood smeared up his thigh, and he found it both disgusting and fascinating.

Stumbling to his feet, he winced with nearly every step, a barely discernible favouring of one of his legs over the other. Washing his hands, he ignored how he could still feel the blood running down his legs, though it was slow and brought no cause for worry to mind.

His eyes were dry and sore, cheeks red and tight-feeling from his crying, he could feel the gritty tear tracks. Grabbing a paper towel and lightly wetting it, he wiped his cheeks over before wiping at his legs.

It was a process that could become frustrating quickly. Sometimes the cuts began to bleed again, or they would burn under the careful treatment. However, he took his time and never rushed. Afterwards, he wrapped the particularly large cut with gauze that was typically reserved for skateboarding accidents around his thigh tightly, tying it off with a sigh as the blood immediately began to seep through. 

_It could have been worse,_ he told himself, he could have gone so deep he needed help and then he’d have to look his mother in the eyes, he’d make her sad, or _god forbid,_ he’d make her cry. 

Making his mother cry may have been worse than any pain he could ever afflict on himself. He loved her far too much.

The bloody paper towels were flushed, razor stowed away in his pocket as he carefully made his way back to his room, a little limp in his walk, but otherwise, he was fine.

He was fine, even as he hid the razor beneath his notebooks in his computer desk. He was _fine,_ even if he winched when he moved too quickly, _he was fine,_ because if he wasn’t that just meant that he was weak and needy. Oh 

Climbing into bed, he laid flat on his stomach and sighed, suddenly feeling tired and heavy. Closing his eyes and turning gingerly onto his side, mindful of the heat in his skin and the messy feelings that wrapped around his heart, the thoughts that wouldn’t stop clogging his head, he willed himself to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this while on the verge of sleep, so it may not make much sense coherently, tysm for reading!


End file.
